


Theriac Therapy

by ac1d6urn (Acid)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Banter, Daydreaming, Dessert & Sweets, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, HP Kinkfest 2019, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Harry Potter, Porn with Feelings, Post-War, Professor Harry Potter, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-08 18:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid/pseuds/ac1d6urn
Summary: One day, the young Defence professor Potter encounters the greasy git paired with dessert he didn't quite bargain for.





	Theriac Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** #S94  
>  **Kink:** First Time  
>  **Optional Prompt/Extras:** Slow, hot seduction. I want to squirm in my seat.  
>  **Submitted By:** ladyofsilverdawn
> 
> Thank you to Drawlight, without whom this story wouldn't exist, and to Perverse Idyll, who helped remake it into a tale worth telling.

**_Theriac_ ** _(from Latin thēriaca - an antidote to poison): a paste formerly used as an antidote to snake venom, made from sixty to seventy different drugs pulverised and mixed with honey. Also, treacle._

_Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage_

* * *

It starts ever so slow. Slow as hot treacle running down the length of a spoon handle. Slow as the fumes rising from a near-bubbling cauldron as one stirs it counterclockwise twelve times with a steady hand. Slow as a stumble leading up to the final fall, as the snake fangs rip into one's throat, when a gasp of frantic desperation lasts for eternity and all life flashes before one's eyes on the Shrieking Shack floor: death dodged and stalled and stoppered. One might speculate that this wild, inappropriate, precious spark had never really been kindled at all, just escalated, amplified, step by step, word by word, from the first moment two stares crossed, from the first moment Snape sneered at Harry across the length of a classroom. From the first time Snape strode past Harry in the corridor without so much as a sideways glance and from the first glimpse of his meticulous marks in red ink over Harry's scribbles, and on and on, every life's lesson thereafter, carrying on to its inevitable conclusion. But this story is not about lessons, or teachers, or even detention.

Well, maybe a little bit about detention.

On Tuesday night, between detentions, Harry notices Snape in the teachers' lounge. It's a room as ordinary as the Quidditch changing rooms, with nothing to make it memorable to him besides, perhaps, the chairs which look far more comfortable than the Library's. As varied in design as they are in occupants, they shield the casual readers from the hurricane of daily hubbub, leaving everyone for themselves, a solitary bubble of peace amid the castle's hurried ways.

Snape’s in shadow, but his hands catch the light from a nearby chandelier. His fingers are bony and sallow, with ink stains at their tips. Snape holds his quill like a weapon as he skims through The Potions Quarterly. The metallic nib shines, poised to leave a mark on the margins any minute, but for now, it only punctuates the silence as the narrow plume curls and brushes against his sleeve. (Harry remembers a vision of Snape in class, a feathery tip tickling the corner of Snape's mouth, and swallows down the urge to follow the quill with his stare until it flicks up, up, up.) In the dark, the angles of Snape's face are rough and wrong, sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes and pronounced shadows underneath. The nose is a statement of defiance in the face of beauty. His jaw has a hint of an afternoon stubble and is visibly tense as if Snape spends his days, minutes, hours grinding his teeth together. ( _Perhaps he does. Of course, he does._ ) Snape's neck is ravaged by ugly scars; just the tip of the damage emerges above the high collar but Harry had seen the greasy git in St. Mungo's before, he knows how far the scars stretch along the clavicle, bite marks cutting deep into the pale shoulder. Snape's hair is as greasy as ever and as shiny as the tips of his narrow boots. He is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pretty sight, but there is something striking about him anyway.

Snape's stare when no one but Harry is watching is dark and clever, the evidence for all manner of curious thoughts lurking within. As if Snape _knows_ , down to the last embarrassing visual, what Harry is thinking this very second, or what Harry thinks about at night, when no one is watching. Facing the man reminds Harry of seeing his reflection in the lake water at Hogwarts after the sun has set, and it is chilly and dark, darker still where, below the seaweed and the murky water, the Giant Squid lies in wait and then, suddenly, lunges.

It's an unsettling stare, all things considered. It’s never stopped unsettling Harry in all the physical ways.

 _He wouldn't read my mind, not without permission... or would he?_ Harry shoves the thought aside. He refuses to dwell on the idea that Snape and the Half-Blood Prince are the same people. Refuses to remember that he once penned a gushing letter - might as well have been a love note - to the Prince where he used phrases like 'you're brilliant, a genius, even' and 'You sound lonely. Have you got someone, a girl maybe? Or any family...' and 'if you need a friend, or anything else, just…'.  The letter was never sent, so he can pretend it never happened. _All solved. Done. Don’t need to think of this again._

"Potter." Snape's voice is low and even. It's an acknowledgement, barely, but it's more than Harry’s got in the past few months of brushing past the man in the corridors.

Harry stops in his tracks even though he was already headed for the door, and it's like he's a student again, with the telltale heat flooding his face. _Would it kill him to call me Professor?_ He’s spent seven months being Professor Potter. Professor Potter is no longer a frazzled fourth-year afraid to get caught in the corridors after curfew.

Snape's eyes flash at him from his reading. Then he slowly, ever so slowly, sets his quill aside, raises his hand to his lips, and licks his index finger before he flips to the next page. The page settles with a rustle, like a folded wing. There's a black-and-white drawing of a carefully preserved lavender plant. Snape's hand comes to rest over it, as gentle as if covering a sleeping bird. His touch spreads the pages apart, long fingers fanned out wide with precision, middle finger thrust right into the centre crease. The way the single digit is cradled by the paper suggests things that would be inappropriate to voice within earshot of the students, especially the upper-years whose gossip already turns Harry's ears bright red! In any case, Harry doesn't browse through the dirty mags often enough to start seeing lascivious spectacles in everyday encounters! He does so very rarely, in fact so rarely that this one visual brings forth a vivid memory of last year's June centrefold.

He gulps and feels a sudden need to loosen his collar. The candles floating about make the room far too warm. "Snape," he croaks. After all, it is only polite to greet your colleagues back.

Snape leans forward. His face is in candlelight now and even candlelight doesn't flatter him in the least. A black strand of hair falls over his eye. It's out of place, and Harry puts his hands behind him to stop himself: he really should not reach out and touch it. Snape's brow lifts in question and his chin juts out in the shadow of his sizeable nose. With his robes gathered around him like fluffed up feathers, he looks somewhat like an exotic bird. A raptor on the hunt.

His head tilts, and Harry suddenly feels far too short, aware of every wrinkle of his robe and every unfastened button, every smudge on his glasses.

"Are you free tomorrow night?"

Harry blinks. The words might as well be Latin.

"Er." _Is this what I think it is? Quick, what do I say?_ "Yes!" _Was that too eager? That was, wasn't it? Oh crap._ He tries to contain his grin but gives up fighting it after a long second. It probably looks like a pained grimace. _Argh._

"Perfect." Snape rises before him. The Potions Quarterly he’d caressed (or molested in front of Harry's eyes) remains on the table. The quill serves as a bookmark; its black filaments extend just beyond the spine, ruffled by the movement of Snape's robes.

 _Oh yes, I can do this, I've got this covered,_ Harry thinks. _He seems to agree with a plain 'yes' anyway. That's reasonable, innit?_

"I plan to send Mr. Peters and Ms. Davies into your office at six o'clock sharp for their detention. I do appreciate your cooperation on such… short notice." Snape turns on his heel, quick and final, and Harry feels like an utter fool for thinking it was anything more than a favour to a fellow teacher.

_Crap._

"Oh. Yeah," Harry says, following as Snape circles past him, trying not to sound quite so dejected. What did he think would happen, anyway? "Sure. Two hours?"

"Double that for Davies." Snape sneers sharply. Suddenly, they are face to face again. They are almost the same height, so why does Harry always feel so short in front of him? "And Potter?"

"Yes?"

Snape lifts his hand and reaches for Harry's shoulder in a gesture far too deliberate. It's a surreal, slow-motion moment: his fingers reach upwards and Harry turns, tilting his head down and almost, almost feels the heat of Snape's ghostly touch along his jaw. _Is he doing what I think he's doing? Why?_ It's the same hand that a few moments ago had coaxed the book’s pages to open in such a mind-bogglingly stimulating manner.

Slowly, casually, Snape adjusts and smooths down the collar on Harry's right side, and Harry's heart skips a beat even though Snape's fingers never come in contact with his skin. He holds his breath and waits, an unasked question on his tongue. He isn't sure what all this means. He can only guess but _oh god, no way is this accidental._

"Much better." Snape's features soften just for a second, and Harry is aware he's staring like an idiot but he can't help it. He drags his teeth over his lower lip, a terrible habit. _No, I mustn't do that, he'll think I'm doing it on purpose. Am I? Oh fuck. I think I am!_

Is it a trick of the light or did Snape's eyes just widen? His hand stills halfway between them and then, just like that, Snape Summons his reading and his quill and strides past Harry out of the teachers' lounge, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, without so much as a good-bye.

Harry is left behind to adjust his robes down his front and stand there wondering: _What the hell just happened?_

He pushes his glasses up his nose and stares at the dark-green upholstery of an empty chair that just a minute ago framed one Severus Snape, and then he squints around the empty room. A grin crosses his face and he isn't even sure why he's beaming. Cautiously he raises his hands up, shutting his eyes tight as he tilts his head toward the tall ceiling. _Yes!_

It is, coincidentally, the exact pose a younger Harry Potter once assumed during a Quidditch match after ensuring a Gryffindor victory by catching the Golden Snitch. It’s certainly more impressive with a soaring broomstick between one's thighs, holding one twenty feet in the air over the roaring crowd, but it's the feeling of ascending upwards into the sky surrounded by victorious cheering that counts.

* * *

 

Harry hates marking essays. ( _Who loves this sort of thing? Probably Snape._ ) The task is far more boring than writing them. To punish himself, he summons the stack of them during Peters' and Davies' detention and decides to slog through two uncomfortable tasks in one go. While the two Ravenclaws ( _What did the swotty sods do to deserve an evening's worth of detention from Snape?_ ) huddle over a dismantled suit of armour, polishing its various parts, he squints at a third-year’s attempt to describe a grindylow habitat. His thoughts keep wandering back to the encounter in the teachers' lounge: to the quiet, possessive way Snape's stare captured his attention, to the steady sweep of his fingers across Harry's collar. How would it feel if Snape's fingertip strayed just half an inch upwards? Harry brings his hand up to the right side of his neck and tries it, tracing a path above his starched collar, a slow, steady line. His nail drags below his jaw, catches skin. _And then he'd tip my head upwards and..._ _Ah._

_Wow._

Perhaps he isn’t as into girls as he’d thought all through school. _But Snape? Holy fuck. Did it have to be Snape?_ Maybe Harry developed some sort of an adrenaline reaction to the swooping and the traded insults. _Maybe I really am a masochist._ He groans, and the only thing that stops him from burying his face in his folded arms is the knowledge of the two students in the room, watching closely.

He draws a deep breath instead and rubs his temples to ward off a headache. "Well?" he calls out. "Davies, are you aware that the vambrace is on backwards? Peters, you can stop polishing the helm. The pauldrons still want cleaning." His tone comes out sour and stern, almost like Snape's. _Argh. That's the last thing I’m after, scaring the students like that. They don't need a second teacher in the school treating them like dirt._ "Now, what have you learned today?" he adds, milder.

Davies' nose wrinkles up. "No fighting in the vicinity of potions ingredients, sir."

Mr. Peters' left eye is accented by a spectacular bruise. Ms. Davies' jaw sports a series of scratches, and is that a bite on her wrist? Really? Ravenclaws fight dirty. Who would have thought?

"Well," Harry says. "I hope you've learned your lesson for today. Peters, you may go after you reassemble the suit of armour on its pedestal. Davies, please return to my office tomorrow at six p.m."

They both nod and scurry to put the various squeaking parts together again.

Before the girl leaves, Harry shakes his head and can't help but wonder. "Davies?"

"Yes, Professor Potter."

"What did you do in Snape's class to get double the detention Peters did?"

She sighs and looks down at her toes. "I called Peters a pusillanimous pansy, sir."

Harry hmphs in what he hopes is a disapproving, stern and all-knowing manner. It's rather difficult to be staring down a younger version of Hermione.

Davies' mouth twists in a bitter smirk. "I didn't mean it. Maybe just a little. I should have called him a pernicious prat instead but he didn't let me get that bit in. He’d already lunged and scratched my face."

Harry's mouth twists. He studies the unfortunate student and sighs, staring down through his glasses to convey deep disappointment. (Recalling Professor McGonagall's stares helps a lot.) He counts to seven to drive home the grave significance of her error and then waves her off. "Tomorrow at six. Don’t be late."

She disappears through his office door and only then does he sag back in his chair and push his glasses up to his forehead so he can rub his face. No one ever told him teaching was _hard_!

Snape would probably sneer and spit out something completely sarcastic. Snape would probably know what 'pusillanimous' meant right off the bat, too. _Damn him!_ Harry groans and summons a dictionary.

He shakes his head as he leafs through the Ps. _Kids these days!_

For a second, he pauses, holding the book open, then tilts his head as if thinking back on something. Carefully, ever so carefully, he uses his middle finger to part the pages, pushes it down and drags it across the formed fold. It's not as graceful - not to mention downright dirty - as when Snape did it, but it makes Harry feel like quite an experienced reader indeed.

* * *

 

The next time Harry encounters Snape, he’s drawn the short straw and has to supervise a Hogsmeade trip for a boisterous group of mixed-House students. It's exhausting even to think about, so when he finally considers dropping by the Three Broomsticks to celebrate a hard day's work, it's a challenge to steer himself away from the tempting thought of a hot drink. After all, he has the same group of students to coax back to Hogwarts grounds in about half an hour. Besides, a teacher has a reputation to maintain, and that reputation likely includes not setting a bad example for the impressionable fourth-years ambling underfoot.

It is with deep regret that Harry doesn't, in fact, nip into the Three Broomsticks for a pint but stays outside, keeping an eye on various stragglers in Madam Puddifoot's and Zonko's. It's during a particularly yawn-worthy hour from three p.m. to four p.m. that he sees Snape disappearing into Ceridwen's Cauldrons and his Sunday suddenly becomes far more interesting.

He smiles and brings his hand to the side of his neck, adjusting his collar awkwardly, as if in memory of what transpired in the teachers' lounge. The phantom warmth against the side of his neck is certainly imaginary, but the idea of Snape someday repeating the gesture warms up his insides on a chilly afternoon faster than Firewhisky ever could.

It takes Harry all of half a second to turn toward Ceridwen's Cauldrons and start walking, even though he sees no students spending their time amid the stacks of the proprietor's famed self-stirring wares. A doorbell in the shape of a miniature silver teapot rings melodically as Harry steps through the entranceway. He peers past the tall stacks of cauldrons, copper, iron, pewter, and stone in all possible shapes and sizes, hoping to spot Snape among them. After all, the sour sod is in his element here. Maybe he’d be slightly happier and more willing to strike up a conversation than during Harry's regular encounters with him at Hogwarts.

He searches the aisles for the familiar dark-robed looming figure and almost knocks over a stack of copper cauldrons taller than himself. _Whoa!_ He hadn’t seen that coming.

A hand lands on his shoulder and yanks him from the narrow aisle into the light. Suddenly brought face to face with Snape, Harry finds himself short of breath, butterflies swarming in his stomach.

_Oh._

"Hi! Um. Do you need any help? Carrying anything, or…" Harry presents his finest winning grin and hopes for the best, as in, Snape not inquiring what the hell he's doing here, what with all the students to herd back to the castle.

Which, of course, Snape promptly does, displaying his empty hands and replying with his eyes narrowed. "Not at the moment."

Harry tries not to stare, he really does. The fingers of Snape’s left hand rest ever so gently on the rim of a brass cauldron, the index finger smoothing the tapered ridge. It's mesmerising to watch.

"You seem lost. May I direct you toward an exit?"

"I'm good, thanks," Harry deadpans. _It's just cauldrons. Besides, if I could fondle a dictionary, I can definitely handle a cauldron._ And suddenly it feels a whole lot less awkward to stand here in a narrow shop aisle with Snape, so close that the tips of their boots almost touch. Harry shoves his hands deep into his pockets and raises his chin defiantly. "I think my interest in cauldrons has grown lately." _Yeah. Who doesn't need a good sturdy cauldron in their life?_ "I could use a spare."

Hoping his hands won’t shake, he reaches up and attempts the terrible, wonderful act of smoothing his palm over Snape's buttoned cloak.

"A spare?" Snape's brows climb up. "Well, well. I never would have pegged you for a cauldron lover."

"Maybe I am." Harry makes a show of peering around the pewter and brass stacks. "I'm even thinking of getting one today. For brewing. What would you suggest, for a beginner?"

"Enlighten me. Just what are you planning to brew?"

Harry shrugs. _Who plans these things anyway? Sometimes they just… happen._ Like running into Snape in a Hogsmeade shop. Completely accidental. _Quick, how am I going to explain this one?_ _I need something I can brew. What_ can _I brew?_ _Tea? Mulled wine? Felix Felicis because I need every damned drop right about now?_

"If you don't know what you’re after, perhaps you shouldn't be here at all, hm?" And with that, Snape places his hand on Harry's shoulder, steadying him in place, then sidesteps him and swiftly moves toward the exit.

All Harry can do is gulp for air and try not to topple any of the stacks. _Argh. What did I say wrong?_

"Hang on a sec. Snape?"

The dark figure stills, not quite at the door.

Harry bites his lip. "It's actually my first cauldron, since school, that is. But I know what I'm after. Something reliable. Have you got any recommendations?"

Snape's eyes narrow as if he's considering something that warrants deeper thought. "You can't go wrong with pewter. Standard size 2. You should know this by now, or were my lectures that forgettable?"

"On the contrary," Harry says, beaming. "I remember them quite clearly, even now. Thanks, Professor."

Snape delivers a curt nod and with that, the silver teapot at the entryway rings once as he stalks out, disappearing into the busy crowds.

"Well, are you going to stand there and leer or buy something, lad?" the clerk at the counter grumbles into his beard. He taps an accordion-like cylindrical contraption on his lap and it promptly collapses flat, a pair of small handles protruding on both sides. The old man stacks it like a record onto the shelf alongside a dozen others like it.

"Collapsible Cauldrons," the sign above the shelf proclaims in twelve-inch letters. "So easy a six-year-old can wield it!" An article on young Bruno Schmidt killing an Erkling with one is pinned below, and Harry can't help but be distracted by the photos of a rosy-cheeked urchin holding the Collapsible Cauldron in front of him like a giant shield.

"Were you in Slytherin?" the old clerk inquires. "By the sound of things, Snape’s taken a liking to you. Can't imagine him growing this fond of anyone else."

Harry blinks and has an urge to check whether he's wearing a glamour he's forgotten about. "No, I'm a Professor here at Hogwarts..."

 _Wait? Is the old man completely blind?_ He takes a few steps to the left. Sure enough, the man keeps looking at the empty spot where Harry had been standing until the floorboard creaks, and then he faces Harry again, smiling genially as he stuffs his pipe. The name tag pinned to a cabled grey jumper glistens with a runic script: _Morda_.

Harry frowns and pushes his glasses up his nose. "How could you tell he liked me?"

The old man cackles. "You flirted with him in a cauldron shop and you're still standing. That was as bold as brass, lad, and I do know brass by now. So, about that cauldron… Pewter, you say?"

* * *

 

The third time Harry sees Snape, they're outside on the Quidditch pitch, with a Slytherin-Gryffindor match coming up in three… two… one.... _Go Gryffindor!_ Their Seeker isn't as good as Harry would like, but hey, the Keeper is brilliant! Harry quickly takes his seat in the stands meant for the school's professors - _it's still odd to be sitting here and watching the game instead of flying out there_ \- that's a novelty he has yet to get used to. There's an empty space on the bench next to him and he sees Snape making his way up the staircase, cloak billowing in the wind like a great batwing. Harry gathers up his courage to wave and grin, then points to the seat next to him and makes an inviting gesture.

Snape shakes his head.

Of course not. Who'd want to sit next to someone cheering for your team to lose? But with a decisive stride, Snape pushes through and chooses one of the empty seats behind Harry, so close that Harry can feel Snape’s cloak sweep his back. With a rustle, Snape settles down. If Harry turns his head just a bit, he can see the tip of a shiny black boot resting right behind him, in line with his hand on the seat. This means Snape's knee is almost touching Harry's shoulder, and if Harry ever did something as rash as turn around and stare, he'd likely face Snape's crotch, front and centre, which isn't something advisable for two blokes in the middle of a Quidditch crowd cheering for the opposite teams, or two blokes in the middle of any crowd ever.

Harry gulps and rubs the back of his neck. _Don't turn. Whatever you do, don’t turn around._

And then, amid the roar of the crowds and the commentator's clear voice, at the wave of Headmistress McGonagall's wand, the banners unfurl, a glorious golden and crimson, followed by silver striped with green, and the match finally begins.

Ten minutes into it, the quaffle is passed around between the teams and the Keepers are doing their jobs. There’s no sign of the Snitch yet, and Harry forgets himself and leans back to watch the skies.

It's as subtle as a stolen kiss, the brush of a knuckle against his back. Harry mistakes it for a breeze at first, but the wind dies down. It's warm, definitely a human touch. Two fingers sweep across his nape, brush through his hair. Harry inhales sharply and doesn't move. Doesn't make a sound. He's scared that if he shifts even an inch, the hand at the back of his neck will disappear, never to return.

Around him, the crowds cheer on Jones, who narrowly avoided a bludger. Harry takes another breath, and even though he should probably hold still, he leans back and cautiously presses his head against the warmth of that hand. It cradles him on one side, barely brushing his ear and tickling along the earlobe.

And then, just like that, it's gone, leaving Harry to wonder whether it was there at all.

The whole length of the game, chills run up and down his spine, and he gives up questioning what it's all about. Instead, as the match progresses to its inevitable conclusion (Gryffindor has to win, has to! Harry has a bet going, and he isn't losing three galleons again this week!), Harry looks off to the side, reaches back and slides a careful hand over a polished black boot, and then, heart in his throat, curls his fingers around a shiny leather ankle.

 _Merlin, what am I doing? What if it’s not him? What if… shit, what if a student sees us? Or worse, the headmistress? Bloody hell, this is bad._ But their seats are off to the side, and no one’s next to him, and clearly all anyone’s watching is Rosemary Brown and Hildegard Healy elbowing each other thirty feet in the air in pursuit of the Snitch, and then -

The solid weight of Snape's hand marks Harry's shoulder, his thumb moving back and forth, so steadily, so slowly, that Harry holds back a moan. _What's wrong with me? This isn't a game._ He feels a breath against the back of his head and turns so Snape's next breath is against his ear. Snape huffs. In amusement? Is this funny to him? Harry squeezes the leather ankle and feels the boot nudge gently against his palm.

"Care to place a bet, Potter?" Snape's voice is an unmistakable rumble. The hand at Harry's shoulder squeezes and lets go. "I like Healy's odds."

 _Yeah, right._ Harry bites his lip and finally turns around, looking cautiously up at that sardonic smirk. Above them, Brown's gaining ground on the Snitch. _Yes!_

"Sure. What are we betting?"

Snape's lips curve, and he studies Harry in that warm, scrutinizing way that makes Harry's heart rate pick up. "A proper meal."

Harry tries to breathe, really tries. He's aware of his own lips parting but no words coming out. _Which one of us is… oh, right, he probably just means dinner somewhere. As in, dinner with Snape. Whoa. Dinner with_ Snape _!_

"Well?"

Harry grins and nods. Letting go of Snape's boot, he pulls his glove off and offers his hand to Snape to seal the deal. "Done."

Just as Snape's long-fingered hand slides into his grip and squeezes, the crowd erupts in applause. Brown lets out an angry shout, and Healy soars, waving the Snitch over her head.

_Dammit!_

* * *

 

A proper meal is nothing to scoff at. Therefore, having recently lost a bet, Harry finds himself faced with a dilemma. What would Snape call a 'proper meal'? A pint and some fish and chips from Hogsmeade probably won't qualify, so Harry has to get inventive. The last thing he needs is all the unwanted attention he usually attracts in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. In the end, he appeals to Winky's creative side and asks her for a favour: a fancy dinner for two, on a Thursday.

Apparently a fancy dinner for two means that Harry's quarters have to be commandeered in advance. Harry takes a walk through the corridors, hoping Winky can manage to serve a meal that appeals to Snape's tastes.

 _Where is all of this going?_ he wonders. _And what am I going to do when it, whatever 'it' is, does get... somewhere?_ So far he's been flying by the seat of his pants: flirting with danger, circling around a sleeping predator, poking a complacent monster with a stick. Tickling a sleeping dragon. A word here and there to stir up the imagination, some teasing banter sparking mutual excitement, that was fun. Incredibly fun, in fact, in the way of a lighthearted game.

But dinner with Snape - well, won't that be weird?

Dinner means something. Something more than a shared meal: shared company over food is a ritual, sometimes a gesture of goodwill, sometimes a statement.

Harry sighs, feeling sheepish. It's all so impossible, so inexplicable and difficult to imagine. A spark of desire kindled from fingers combing through his hair and a couple instances of him flushing at a suggestive phrase or three is one thing. Waking up to the view of Snape in his bed in the morning would be…

_One hell of a revelation._

Harry strides down the corridor, hands fisted at his sides, steps wide and jerky. _This is the greasy git I'm thinking of. He used to bully us something awful. My friends. Me._

_He saved my life. He risked his own life and almost died._

Harry can't stop thinking about Snape's hands, his stare. Keeps hearing Snape's voice in his head. And it's so bloody confusing. Harry's confused. It's the only word that fits.

He comes to a halt and leans against the arched window, pressing his forehead against the chilled glass and closing his eyes. As a dare to himself, he summons an image in his mind's eye of Snape in bed, in full detail under the morning light.

_If I can't handle thinking about it, I should stop this right now, whatever it is._

_So, Snape in my bed. What would that look like anyway? Snape. No. Severus. He would be Severus to me. Would his hair be all messy, like mine gets? Would he be sallow and skinny all over? Would he still sneer or would he actually smile? I’d like to see that. A real smile on his face._

Harry tries, but picturing Snape smiling is as impossible a task as imagining him out of his robes.

 _What is he like? What_ does _he like? How can I find out if I don't even know half of the things I might like doing, or whether I'll enjoy doing them with him?_

Harry thinks of him as Severus then. Severus, not Snape. Out of his robes, out of his element. Enjoying something - really enjoying it, in that tingling, toe-curling way, in the presence of another. In Harry's presence. His head is tilted up, his eyes closed, his breathing wild, all words driven from him by arousal, those unforgettable hands grasping Harry, holding him like something precious, someone wanted. Severus' features would be twisted with pleasure, his hair would brush against Harry's jaw, Severus' cock would be long and hard against his -

With a gasp, Harry surfaces from his daydream, wide-eyed and frazzled, alone but in a state that no Hogwarts Professor should ever be discovered in, especially in the middle of a corridor.

He looks down and holds back an exasperated groan, arranging his robes around himself and hurrying onwards.

_I need some air._

Harry's trek through the Hogwarts corridors brings him out into the courtyard. The breath of cold air is refreshing, wintry and crisp, like an ice cube thrust under his nose. Harry's boots leave tracks in the freshly-fallen snow and all is quiet, as quiet as it can only be at night when it’s after curfew and only teachers are allowed to wander around undetected and unaccounted for. Harry uses this brief moment of solace to do absolutely nothing but look up at the starry sky of the courtyard and wish Snape was here to see the numerous constellations. The Big Dipper. The small one. A magical brew of wispy clouds spills beneath it all like a wave of unfolded sails, the dim North Star guiding the way.

He doesn't miss Professor Sinistra's classes, but he does like seeing the night sky.

The quiet helps him think, helps his mind settle.

His face tingles with the night's chill. Shoved into the pockets of his robes, his gloveless hands are feeling the cold, just like his knees and his feet. But once he remembers the cautious touch ruffling his hair at the Quidditch match, everything suddenly becomes much warmer. He glances around the abandoned courtyard and casts a Tempus charm. It's time to go back. Snape will probably be at his door any minute. Harry shuffles from foot to foot, looks around, and then reaches out for a solitary branch shining with icy splendour. He breaks it off and immediately puts it under a stasis charm, as precious as a coral in his hands but less fragile than before. The table looked far too bare without a centrepiece. Perhaps this will do. The contrast of sharp planes of white ice and black branches reminds Harry of Snape's sleeves, pulled up just before a complex brewing ceremony.

Will Snape notice it? Harry hopes so.

He returns to his quarters, opening the door to all the wonderful food smells, garlic and butter and herbs. Winky has outdone herself. Floating candles hover overhead, providing just enough ambient light over the table for two.

Harry's rooms are on the third floor, where Headmistress McGonagall's office used to be when she was still teaching. It's a cosy, quiet place, with an ever-burning fire in the corner hearth and a small, sparse bedroom off to the side. Harry has even kept the tartan cover that upholsters the sofa.

He approaches the table setting, which includes dinner plates and shining silverware, and suddenly feels so formal standing here. He smooths the wrinkles out of his shirt, runs his hand through his hair. _Shit. I'd best change into something more suitable_. _Something that says I'm serious about this._

He casts a critical look at the table and then slaps his head and scrambles over to collect a bottle of wine off the shelf. It's the same one Hermione gave him when he was hired on at Hogwarts. He sets the cobwebbed black bottle down on the table by the already prepared feast. Wines are supposed to be paired with food, but Harry has no clue how to do that. He hopes this bottle is all right. Maybe Snape, with that pointy nose of his and a penchant for selecting just the right potions ingredient, knows better than he does.

Harry steps back to admire how much care has gone into the preparations. Two candlesticks float over the roast beef and the dish with the steak and kidney pie. A bread and butter pudding is covered with a cloth to keep warm for later. Silverware glistens on the white tabletop. A small transfigured vase holds an iced-over addition. The newly-acquired hawthorn branch, a cluster of berries frozen and bright, sits within. It smells of snow, of festivities yet to come. It's got that wintry scent, not of a fir tree, but still a reminder of gifts and warm mornings in front of the fireplace while snowstorms howl outside the window.

 _How serious is serious enough?_ Harry wishes he had an answer. For now, he just casts a final glance at the splash of red - the berries on the hawthorn branch - and hopes that Snape has similar concerns about tonight.

At six, there’s a knock on the door. Harry is just about done buttoning up a starched collar and greeting himself in the mirror three different ways (first serious, then grinning, and then with a smouldering glare just for practice). At the knock, he gathers his wits and races past the elaborate dinner setting to his door. The candlesticks bob in the air at his approach and float upwards. The cutlery rattles with his footsteps.

He opens the door and promptly freezes, a daring 'Hello there' never leaving his lips. Snape is wearing black, as always, but the fabric of his robes is smooth, barely a wrinkle on them. His boots are polished to shine and his hair is brushed back just a bit to show the silvery threads at his temples. He looks sharp, distinguished even. It's not something Harry's used to associating with Snape: the wizarding world's idea of wealth, of culture. Harry knows better, remembers the spidery walk of a hungry, skittish teenager, the too-large blouse hanging over a boy's skinny frame.

He's _nothing_ like that now. There's a smooth elegance to his smile. A dark sleekness to the sweep of his hair. His features aren't exactly elegant, sharp with shadow, heavy with angles and planes, but they're distinguished nonetheless. Snape's stare, a dark and wild thing, burns Harry in parts he didn't expect to be so vulnerable, like his heart.

"Good evening," Snape says, low and deep. And it takes Harry's breath away. When did Snape's voice start doing that?

_I've gotta step away from the door, I'm an idiot. What am I doing waiting here with my mouth hanging open? How about doing a reasonable thing for once, like letting him in?_

"Er. Come in, please."

Relieved at sounding so sensible, and not at all like a complete fool, Harry steps back and Snape follows, stepping inside and looking around the sitting room, which has been converted to contain the romantic dinner for two, what with the small table and all the mood lighting.

The door clicks shut behind him and Harry watches Snape assess his surroundings. "This has changed since I saw it last."

Harry beams. "For the better, I hope."

Snape casts a long look over the table with the shiny hawthorn branch in the centre vase. "You've… redecorated." His gaze rests on the sofa with its green tartan. "Although some things stay the same."

"Please," Harry says. "Come and sit down." He barely stops himself from using magic to pull a chair out for Snape, who’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

As he chooses his seat, Snape surveys the meal laid out in front of him. "Well, well." His expression appears pleased, even impressed. "I have to say, losing a bet suits you."

"Hey!" Harry grumbles. "Just wait until the next round. You won't get off as easily as a meal then."

Snape bares his teeth in a sneer as he settles down. "Really, Mr. Potter? What could you possibly want from me that's harder than a meal?" His stare rakes Harry up and down, and Harry has the sudden urge to throw caution to the winds and just go for it: show the sarcastic sod exactly what he’s after right there and then. He clutches the table's edge to stop himself from lunging. _I've got to go slow. Slow is good. Look at all the work Winky’s put into this._

Harry recalls Hermione saying that the wine should be opened earlier to give it time to breathe and casts a quick banishing charm on the cork, hoping Snape won’t see or will have the good manners not to mention it.

He pours the Merlot into their empty glasses, just a touch of it, feeling a bit like a student measuring out the ingredients in the Potions classroom under Snape's scrutiny. He's never done this before. _There's a first time for everything. I've got this!_

He is almost, almost a confident host. That is, until Snape's hand covers his, until Snape meets his eyes and instructs him softly, "Twist the bottle toward the end to keep it from dripping."

Snape's fingers are warm, and Harry can't help but feel adrift but steady at the same time. They both still together over the glass, the bottle tilting awkwardly in Harry's hand. After a long pause, Harry withdraws and sets it aside. He lifts his glass and toasts, facing Snape intently, taking in the moment and making it last. "To new beginnings."

"Very well. To new beginnings," Snape murmurs, raising his glass.

The conversation is quiet and slow. They pause to enjoy the meal, the atmosphere. The occasional jolt of their stares meeting over the table. They don't talk about the war, or Voldemort, or Harry's mum. Instead Snape shares insights into the students' progress this term and Harry natters on about Quidditch, and the Chudley Cannons' chances next year. They both seem surprised by the fact that the other not only listens attentively but interjects with a timely remark. Harry warns Snape about the rumours of Healy's unsanctioned outings to Hogsmeade and Snape speculates on Gordon Horton postponing his early retirement and staying on for another season.

 _Snape follows Quidditch!_ Harry snorts quietly to himself. Well, of course, he does. He didn't get to be the Referee for his brewing skills alone whenever Madam Hooch was feeling poorly. He has to know what he's talking about.

It's halfway through the meal that Harry gathers the courage to reach out toward one sallow hand resting on the tabletop and cover it with his own. His thoughts are a raw mess. His heart is in his throat. Beneath his palm, Snape's index finger twitches unexpectedly, like a dying creature, or perhaps a reanimated one, and then Snape looks up at him, studying, quiet, and his dark eyes meeting Harry's give Harry a jolt of physical pleasure.

Then Snape's hand shifts and turns over, long fingers grasping back. One narrow finger traces a path across Harry's hand and down his palm and Harry swears he can feel every pulsing vein, can hear every beat of blood in his ears, a susurrus of cresting waves. He grows still, halfway through a shaky breath, and forgets all about the plan of a proper meal.

"Is this all right?" Snape asks, turning Harry's hand over, his fingertips continuing their slow, patient trek up Harry's wrist. The sleeves of Harry's robe are pushed up to his elbows, and Snape is taking advantage of that fact. Those slow, meandering circles rubbed against Harry's skin send tingles down his spine, make his brain fuzzy and hot, despite the fact that he’s barely touched his drink. He can feel the growing pressure in his crotch. He pushes his fork aside.

"Feel like dessert?" he finally breathes and allows himself to lick his lips while staring deliberately at Snape's mouth. Not letting go of Harry's hand, Snape arches his brow and leans forward. His fingers curl around Harry's wrist. Harry always thought of his hands as ordinary. The left one has a faded scar from Umbridge's detention, but otherwise, they're nothing special. In Snape's careful hold, though, he feels like his entire body is something precious, something incredibly special and sought after.

Snape lifts Harry's hand to his mouth, and there's a touch of warm breath against his knuckles, almost, but not quite, the touch of thin lips. How would it feel if Snape leaned in just a little? The warmth of his skin, the hint of stubble.

"I look forward to it," Snape says, low and dangerous.

"I've been looking forward to it all day,” Harry says, “all week even. So what are you planning on having? That - " He nods toward the dish on the table. "Or…" and he squeezes Snape's hand, signalling a challenge.

And that's all it takes, apparently, because in one swift move, Snape rises and pulls Harry toward the sofa. They land in a tangle of limbs and Harry's unselfconscious laughter. Snape's arm wraps around Harry's body, steadying him, as Harry grabs his shoulders and all but falls over his lap, straddling Snape's thighs. Snape's arms hold him up, fingers digging into Harry's sides. Being held like this is a new experience. Harry doesn't know what to make of it, except it's terribly exciting to stay this way, looking down at Snape through the scattered strands of hair, meeting and countering that daring look with one of his own.

And then Snape goes still. His iron hold on Harry loosens. His hands, careful and cautious, rise up past Harry's chest toward his jaw. His fingertips soft, like the touch of an insect, settle over Harry's cheeks. Harry exhales. Leans forward, and down. Beneath him, before him, is Severus Snape. All that that entails. Heavy dark robes spread over the second-hand tartan on Harry's sofa. Snape's limbs are long and bony. His nose is large enough to wreck any kiss, but oh, Harry wants to try, how he wants to risk it. He leans closer, steered by ink-stained hands, and seals his lips over Severus'.

_Oh._

Kissing is simple enough. Harry's kissed others before; he doesn't expect this one kiss to feel much different.

He's completely wrong.

Thin lips part against his own, and Harry feels the glide of one calloused fingertip over the angle of his jaw. Fingers slide into his hair, capture him with the soft hunger, a particular sort of desperation, of need. _Come here, yes,_ Harry thinks. _Exactly like this. Perfect. Stay like this, with me._ Severus would easily best Harry in a wizarding duel, and yet, he trusts Harry enough for this; it's intoxicating.

As he pulls back reluctantly to breathe, Severus' face tilts toward him into the candle light, a quiet sort of reverence, a graceful sort of surrender. His eyes are still closed, his hands tracing over the planes of Harry's face as if he's trying to memorize it by feel.

Harry wants to remember this moment forever. Every stray shadow cast by his hair, every sigh, every shift of emotion on Severus' proud face. Then Severus' lashes twitch, his eyes open, and that stare captivates Harry in a whole new way. Captures him like a night sky, like the inside of a puzzle box, like a pitch-dark room with a mystery stirring inside. And he's falling then, like a man on the precipice above an abyss. Steadying himself over Severus' narrow shoulders. Diving down for another go, a wilder, more urgent attempt the second time around. Harry's hunger takes over and his Gryffindor impatience gets the better of him as he lets out a frantic gasp, slides his fingers along Severus' bony frame, presses himself deeper into Severus' hold.

Severus' spidery fingers tilt his head down, smooth a path along his spine. "More," Harry whispers against those stubborn lips. "Come on, harder!"

Severus rears up and flips them, with Harry thrown back against the scratchy tartan fabric. It’s all sorts of amazing for Harry to tilt his head back, to feel the heated mouth on his neck. It's bliss that's over far too soon. Severus presses his forehead beneath Harry's chin and for a long desperate minute just exhales against Harry's body. And then - his touch is gone.

The chill in the air rushes over Harry at the absence of Severus' lips and tongue. He looks up from under his lashes, and Severus is sitting there adjusting his robes into buttoned perfection. As if Harry hadn’t just twisted them in a desperate grasp.

"What're you - " Harry halts, stares. "Come here. Let me touch you, please."

Severus' breathing is uneven, his stare unsetting and unsettled at once. "Potter," he says abruptly and it's so jarring to hear, like Snape is his professor again snapping right and left across the length of a classroom. _Call me Harry, damn it. We just kissed._ Harry's fully aware he's a wreck right now, hair and clothes in complete disarray, sprawled out before Severus. Severus' hand is over his mouth, as if he is questioning everything they've just done. As if he isn't certain he ever wants to kiss Harry again.

_Oh shit. I need to slow this down._

Harry's lips part with a million arguments but nothing comes out. _Don't go!_ He reaches out, scared to grasp Severus' hand, scared to touch him anywhere, as he meets a wild, lost stare with his own. Severus' hair is a tangled mess, and there’s a pattern of wrinkles over his shoulder where Harry had clutched too hard. All Harry wants is to hold onto him and yet he _can't._

They both take a moment to calm down.

"It's late. Perhaps," Severus runs an unsteady hand over his face, "it's time for me to take my leave."

 _Wait, stay!_ Oh, but this is a bad idea. It's a weekday and they both have an early start. Harry hasn't marked all of the third-year essays on Boggarts yet. Snape probably has an early lecture to prepare for tomorrow as well. Harry shifts around until he's sitting awkwardly at Snape's side, robes bunched up over his lap to conceal his erection. His glasses are still crooked over his nose, his tie untied and his top button undone by Snape's hand.

"So," Harry sighs. "We should be taking it slow, I get it. How slow exactly?"

At that, Snape leans in and captures Harry's lower lip between his teeth. It's an angry kiss and Harry loves every second of their mouths meeting, of their teeth about to click together, of the feel of Snape's tongue tracing his mouth.

Harry clutches at him, and every moment of this counts. He's going mad. _To hell with slow!_

Snape pulls back, and his stare is almost predatory, a fire burning deep within the darkness. "This Saturday. I should return the favour. Dinner at seven?"

Harry feels like soaring. "Yes," he says. "I can manage 'til then."

"In that case," Snape reaches out, covering Harry's hand briefly with his own. "Good night, Mr. Potter. It's been a _remarkably_ pleasant evening."

"Likewise," Harry says, and smiles. A smile isn't nearly enough to show just how much Saturday means to him. "Looking forward to it." He watches Snape and then dares to reach out and catch that long hand for another brief moment of contact. "A lot."

There's a faint flush visible on Snape's sallow cheeks and Harry isn't sorry at all for causing it. How would it look on Snape's body, where Harry can trace the start of it on his torso: down, down, down. Oh god, he wants it to be Saturday now, but Snape rises and takes his leave. The room is far too empty without him, and Harry's face is still burning hot. He drags his fingers through his hair and adjusts his glasses, sinking against the wall and exhaling. Suddenly he tilts his head up and lets out an enormous gleeful, "YES!"

He hopes the Muffliato charms cast on the premises are strong enough to contain his joy.

* * *

 

Saturday can't come soon enough. Harry counts the hours on a Friday afternoon, hoping to catch a glimpse of Snape either in the teachers' lounge or at dinner. The contrary sod doesn't seek out Harry's company in the meantime: they see even less of each other than before.

It's Harry's turn to patrol the corridors that night, and he can't help but make sure his route includes the dungeon. He’s striding past what he thinks is an empty classroom, when the door cracks open and one large sallow hand yanks him inside. _Snape!_

A whirlwind of touch, a hurricane of being pushed against the wall in a darkened room and kissed senseless is not what Harry expected at all when he descended the dungeon stairs. Not that he's complaining. Snape's tongue is slick and devious, parting his lips. Snape's hands are rough and rousing and just right, making Harry struggle to catch his breath as they glide across his chest and his sides. As they pin him by the hips, as Snape's knee makes its way in between Harry's thighs, trapping him between the wall and this hard, thin body before him. As hard as a certain part of Harry's anatomy is rapidly becoming. _Oh god._ Harry thinks. _I can come like this._ It's an embarrassing thought, followed by a jolt of fear: what if someone sees? But soon enough he's thrusting against Snape's leg and moaning into his shoulder, muffling the sound by biting at the black collar.

He's practically lifted up in the air, held in an iron grip, writhing and wanting more. One shudder-worthy mouthful of Snape's tongue later, Harry finds Snape pulling back once more and gravity taking its toll on his body. He struggles to stay upright. But then there's a clatter in the corridor and the sound of youthful voices. Snape's left hand quickly covers Harry's mouth; his right flicks his wand and casts a spell on the door, Silencing or Locking spells, Harry isn't sure which.

The voices pass, and Snape is right there, in the dim moonlight, his stare wild, his breathing heavy. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Harry's, and simply stays there, panting. Harry can see the rise and fall of his chest. Can feel the flex of his fingers, as Snape releases his mouth and drops his hand to Harry's shoulder. Snape’s hands smell of basil leaves, faint and fragrant. Throughout it all, Harry is still hard. _Damn._

"My place or yours?" Harry whispers, hopeful, barely stopping himself from suggesting the nearest desk instead, but Snape shakes his head.

"Tomorrow."

"If I make it 'til then."

Harry's blood is already racing, but oh, the way Snape's lips tease his earlobe stirs his desire. Snape chuckles, his breath in Harry's ear like kindling to the flames. "Patience…"

Harry's never been patient, but Snape's touch alongside his ear taps into his rebellious streak. "One thing..." And it's pure daring that prompts his hand to glide down Snape's front, to settle below Snape's belt and trace the outline of hard cock through the smooth fabric of his trousers. "I want to know something. When you're alone," he whispers against the heated skin of Snape's jaw. "Taking care of this." He demonstrates with a fumbling move just exactly what he means. It prompts a gasp, and that gives him the courage to continue. He swallows down nervousness and carries on, going with his gut rather than common sense. "What do you think about? 'Cause I want to try it all with you. Whatever you want. Or need. Or aren't asking for. I want it all. Every single bit of you."

"Harry."

Harry's eyes widen: _He called me Harry. He never does._ He could get used to that, to the softness in Snape's tone. To the warmth of his depthless stare, focused right on Harry. Beckoning. Daring. Promising. It stirs something deep within Harry, something he doesn't yet know how to deal with.

It's with great restraint that Harry pulls his hand back from between Snape's legs. "Tell me tomorrow, yeah?" He leans forward in hopes of a goodnight kiss and Snape doesn't disappoint, his mouth not teasing, but soft and gentle, first against Harry's lips, then against his forehead.

It takes a long time for Harry to finish his rounds, and he finally reaches a bed (his own and alone, as usual) shortly after.

He's been smiling off and on for the past thirty minutes. Something inside him, too large to contain, has been bubbling up to the surface, causing his heart to pound and his cheeks to grow hot. As he kicks his boots off and pulls his robe over his head, there's a slow and sensual awareness of his limbs, his surroundings. The chill in the air and the memory of how Severus' hair smells when pressed against Harry's forehead and how his stare burns Harry with that subtle, ever-present heat. Severus' unyielding mouth, his fervent touch from yesterday. His voice in Harry's ear. The combination of all of these things, like a spell woven over him. Everything feels so restless and new, even the touch of his own hand down his body. _Does Snape feel like this too? Is it just me?_ Harry presses himself against the cool pillows and stretches out, glasses askew. He flings out his arms and stares up to the ceiling like a complete fool. His arms are covered with gooseflesh, but the shiver that runs across his body is a welcome one. It is the excitement of a holiday's eve, a quiet moment, of waiting right past the threshold to step into the festive spotlight. Harry counts heartbeats until that special, impossible, long-awaited day finally arrives. _Just a few more hours to go._

He burrows under his blankets until the shivers of excitement give way to sleepy relaxation. He pulls his glasses off, setting them on the nightstand with a fumbling hand, and curls on his side. His cock is heavy against his thigh but he doesn't want to take care of that, not just yet. He waits instead, relishing the thoughts of Severus in bed, sleepy and sated, hair wild as it spills over his pillow, hands resting right over the tops of his thighs. What a sight it would be to see Severus' direct that slow, teasing touch toward his own body. He dreams of it too, the seductive, deliberate kind of caress that starts off light and gets harder the more Harry begs for it, turning more intense with every second, and never stopping completely, Severus' hands wandering downward toward all the places Harry wants them to touch most but doesn't know how to ask for, or even how to voice that deep, primal need.

_Tomorrow._

* * *

 

Harry is giddy and lighthearted all morning. On the way to class, he finds himself skipping down the staircase, light on his feet as if his boots were charmed to grow wings. He sees Snape at breakfast (they sit on the same side of the High Table) and can't take his eyes off the way Snape consumes his oatmeal, with measured, slow bites. The Great Hall is probably not somewhere he should ogle a fellow teacher, but he can't help it.

On the other side of him, Hagrid carries on: "... and then I said, if yeh want proper Hippogriff dung for yer cabbages, best get it fresh. 'Arry, are you even listening?"

"Um, yeah, fascinating stuff. Can't go wrong with that plan," Harry mutters back. "You do what you think is best! Have a go at it, you know. Gather up the freshest ones and - what?"

Hagrid squints at him oddly. "It's just yeh been distracted these days. Professor Flitwick says usually he has to drag yeh into the teachers' lounge for a chat. Nowadays yer patrollin' it."

"What of it?" Harry plays with his food. "Maybe I've got business there."

"Business? Sounds serious then. Is it like the rumours say?"

"Depends. What do the rumours say?" Harry grumbles. He's terrified to ask.

"Yeh have a crush."

Harry chokes on his coffee. "What? No! I don't. Er, what else are they saying? And who’s saying it?"

Hagrid shrugs. "All I've heard, really. That yer carrying a torch for a fellow professor. Doesn't take a genius to see that."

Harry gulps and tries pointedly not to look in Snape's direction. Instead, he stabs his fork into his cooling eggs and breaks the yolk so it oozes over his plate in a long spiral, sunny and liquid. He picks up most of it with the lacy edge of the egg white and directs it to his mouth. Snape doesn't take his eggs like that. He prefers hard-boiled, not that Harry’s paid attention that often. Only every other day or so, when Snape happens to be within sight.

Harry also knows Snape takes his coffee black. That he is fond of pepper but not salt. That every once in a while during dinner, he takes a drink of water throughout his meal, long slender fingers wrapping just so against the narrow glass, cradling it gently the way Snape had cradled Harry's face.

Snape's sleeves are a ribbon of white past the span of black fabric, with a glimpse of a shiny button. A contrast in black and white.

A hawthorn branch now sits by Harry's bedside, a reminder of that evening, a study of contrasts on its own, with its iced-over berries and scraggly branches. Blackened wood under the layer of snow. The ice is still preserved under the Stasis charm. Harry can't bring himself to get rid of it. Not just yet. It's missing a few berries - the Stasis charm must have failed at some point, and they must've fallen off, but Harry couldn't find them. Still, it's a memento of something wonderful, something Harry never wants to forget. Something, he hopes, they can continue tonight.

Further down the High Table, Snape suddenly lifts his head and meets Harry's stare.

Harry blinks and feels himself practically glow pink.

"Like I said, 'Arry," Hagrid sighs. "Yeh got it bad."

Harry grimaces and rubs the back of his head. "Just don't tell Headmistress McGonagall, please? I don't think she'd approve, what with all the - " He conveys the rest with the absent-minded wave. "You know."

Hagrid shakes his head in disapproval and mutters something into his beard.

"I'll tell her myself," Harry assures him. "If anything proper ever happens."

"Im-proper, you mean."

Is it possible to feel yourself grow even redder? "Yeah, that too." _I hope it does._

Just as Harry thinks the conversation is over, a rumbling whisper comes from the direction of Hagrid's beard. "Jus' be careful, all right? Professor Snape is a proud man. Stubborn too."

Harry snorts into his drink. _You could say that again._ "I will, Hagrid. Thanks."

* * *

 

After his last class, Harry races back to his quarters, casts a quick cleaning spell, and swiftly unbuttons his professor’s robe, flinging it on the sofa. He has a date tonight. His regular attire won't do. This is a proper dinner with none other than Severus Snape, so Harry has to look his best.

He rifles through his wardrobe, picking and choosing shirts and a decent robe: not too fancy, not too casual. Something that doesn't scream 'shag me now, you surly sod' at first glance, no matter how much Harry actually means it. Come to think of it, he doesn't have any ‘shag-me-now’ robes, something he never regretted until today. Afterwards, Harry summons the box of cufflinks and picks a green pair. Perhaps tonight, green is for luck. _Besides, green means go,_ he thinks to himself, blushing, thinking for once, not of the Slytherin banners unfurling to signal Harry's defeat, but of a glimmering traffic light near Privet Drive at the first crossroad Harry ever stepped foot on.

When at last his outfit is complete, starting with socks and ending with the starched collar around his neck, it's beginning to sink in that he’s having a second date with Severus in less than an hour.

Harry glimpses himself in the mirror and quickly casts a second shaving spell, and then three cleaning charms over his teeth, then his ears, and then after some consideration, his crotch. One can't be too careful with personal hygiene. He takes off his glasses and furiously claws his hair into submission, licking his palm and smoothing it over his fringe, first to the left and then, after a grimace, to the right, until it mostly covers the scar on his forehead. That will have to do. He presses his glasses up his nose and squints at himself in the mirror.

"Looking shaggable," his reflection proclaims and points back at him.

Harry hmphs. The mirror is charmed to give encouragement and fashion advice, although he's ignored most of it so far. Like "Smile, lad, there's nothing quite like the first impression," or "Suspenders _and_ a belt, Potter, really? Your reflection is disowned," or "Plaid robes are a fashion faux pas even you won't recover from." In any case, it's all rubbish, or so Harry thought before he knew any better.

Now, he actually listens to the mirror's advice and feels somewhat better about having to face the unknown, aka Severus Snape, in his native habitat.

* * *

Dressed in his finest, and having received the mirror's blessing, Harry descends several flights of stairs at five 'til seven. He checks his collar - still unbuttoned - and his sleeves, and paces along the door to Snape's private quarters, the one in the far corner, away from the sconces. He’s counting out the seconds. Snape appreciates punctuality, and Harry wants everything to be perfect. The clock in the corridor strikes seven as he lifts his hand to knock in near darkness. Tap. Tap-tap.

The door swings open, letting out a golden stream of light.

"Please, enter," Snape calls out. There's a candelabra in his hand with three lit candles, its twin on the low table by the sofa. The light smooths Severus' jarring features, makes him look like an exotic bird. The looming, watchful kind. Dark eyes flicker, reflecting three tiny flames. Candlelight carries its own kind of magic. With his heart in his throat, Harry steps in.

"Hi," he says, smiling. "Well," he spreads his arms wide, wondering if he should have brought a gift. "Here I am." Even though it's past dinner time, he's not hungry at all, just giddy with excitement.

He looks around, but so far the room holds nothing that can be classified as dinner. Snape leads him to the sofa, where a small silvery cauldron is charmed to float by the second candelabra. A long-handled spoon sticks out of it. "I thought we could have that dessert we missed out on," Snape suggests in a low, deep voice that sends a thrill through Harry.

Harry has so many questions. Excitement races through him at the thought of what it all might mean. "Yeah? What's for dessert then?" He eyes the cauldron with curiosity and sniffs.

It smells sugary and mouthwateringly familiar, but not familiar enough to place.

Snape waves the cauldron aside. "May I suggest an experiment?"

Harry hesitates and sits down. On the cushion next to him is a wide black ribbon of silk. He runs his hand over it and looks up, a question on his lips. Snape arches his brow. "They say that removing one of the senses from the equation heightens others. Would you care to test that theory tonight?"

Realization hits Harry like a downpour. _It's... a blindfold._

_For me?_

For a moment, he wonders how it would feel. Snape will be able to scrutinise him to his heart's content, but Harry won't be able to look back. He won't be able to ready himself for Snape's touch, it'll just happen out of the blue. Random. Sudden. _Oh._ Snape will be in full control of this, whatever it is he's planning, and Harry won’t know what he’s about to do until it happens.

 _Bloody hell. Can I trust him?_ It seems as if for his entire life, Harry's been asking himself that question.

He thinks back on Snape's sudden, surprising reluctance during their last dinner. That unforgettable stare: wild, panicked, and it was Harry who caused it. A raw moment of weakness witnessed: acknowledged and accepted. Harry remembers his surprise when Snape touched him, and how that touch had seemed to promise the world…

 _Because he was in control_. It's how Snape feels comfortable, right?

He looks up at Snape and with every fibre of his being projects the solitary thought: _Do whatever you need. I'm okay with that._

Cheeks hot, he takes his glasses off, mutely setting them aside to make room for the silky cloth.

Sitting across from him, Snape meets his eye. He seems far too calm, too focused, despite the silence.

"Alright," Harry croaks. Trying to look casual, he holds the silky ribbon up to Snape. "You'd best put it on me. To make sure it's... tight enough."

Snape's mouth curls in a smirk. "Certainly." His fingers brush over Harry's as he plucks the silk from his grasp, and then a wide swath of cloth is brought up to Harry's eyes, and he blinks once and closes them, shutting out the light. The silk is smooth and cool against his face, and Snape's hands are gentle as he knots the fabric at the back of Harry's head. The band of soft, even pressure is strangely comforting. Harry tilts his head, and warm air brushes his cheek, then the tingle of a fingertip runs across his jaw toward his earlobe. It's maddening how such a small action on Snape's part can have him wanting, reaching out, almost ready to plead.

It's quiet in the room, almost too quiet. Harry's fingers curl over the smooth fabric of the sofa. He hears footsteps, and then a melodic clang. "Ready?" Snape inquires, and Harry's not sure what he's ready for, but he's beyond ready. He turns toward the sound and breathes, "Yeah."

A hand touches the side of his face, steadying him, nudging his head up. "You'll need to taste this, slowly." And then there’s something by the corner of his mouth just beyond his reach, so Harry parts his lips obediently and sticks out his tongue. He's vaguely aware of how awkward he must look to Snape, but in response, there's only a huff of approval. "Good." Why does it send such a thrill of pleasure down Harry's spine?

Head tilted back, lips parted, he waits. He's almost sure that Snape will do the unexpected, and he’s hoping for that unexpected to be a kiss.

A drop of sweetness hits his tongue. It's fragrant and has a hint of baked bitterness. It tastes the way Harry always imagines a perfect end to a grand holiday feast. The drop runs down his tongue and floods his mouth with a rich, sugary flavour. _Treacle!_ He'd recognise treacle anywhere!

_Ahh._

He turns his head to catch more drops as they turn into a stream of sugary sweetness. Then a metal spoon is lowered into his mouth, and Harry wraps his lips around it, smiling.

He embraces the herbal flavours beyond the sweet and holds the spoonful of treacle in his mouth before swallowing it down. "S'good," he murmurs. _It's still hot. Did Snape make it?_ "More treacle?"

"Theriac," Snape corrects him, and Harry doesn't know that word but words hardly matter at the moment. The spoon vanishes, and Snape's thumb traces the corner of his mouth.

"Savour it. What can you taste?"

The touch of Snape's thumb is distracting. Harry concentrates. It's hard to pick apart the flavours past the sweetness, but the rich scent and taste of the syrupy liquid bloom on his tongue. Snape's tone feels oddly like a lesson in progress. Maybe it is one. "Cinnamon," Harry says at last. "And… cloves?"

"My turn," Snape says. The coaxing lips against Harry's are a surprise, and Harry is only too happy to share the taste of treacle when sharing comes as a side effect of a toe-curling, dizzying kiss.

Aniseed, lemongrass, nutmeg, fennel: Snape whispers the words in his ear, some foreign, some familiar. "Sixty-four herbs and spices total, pulverized and reduced to an electuary overnight," Snape informs him, bottom lip ticklish against Harry's earlobe.

"Sixty-four? You've only named a dozen. What else is in it?"

Snape pulls back, so Harry leans forward, trying to follow him, but a steady hand wraps around the back of the blindfold, holding him in place.

"Just enjoy this, hm?" The metal spoon is back in the corner of his mouth, a smear of honeyed warmth across his cheek. "Did you know, at the time of Black Death, it was recommended for an aged theriac to be rubbed on those deemed too young to ingest it."

Harry snorts. "So you think I'm too young?"

"No." An exasperated sigh follows. "I do think you're the bane of my entire existence, Harry."

Laughter rises in Harry's chest because despite the stern tones; there's a newfound gentleness in the way Snape says his name, as if he measures each syllable with the tip of his tongue, savouring it like a rare treat. "That's the nicest - ah - thing you've ever said to me."

The heat travels down Harry's neck. A breath later, Snape's mouth descends and punctuates the sweet warmth with a kiss. _Oh._

_Ohhh._

_This is going to get messy._

Harry's grins at the thought. A dollop of syrup is running down the side of his neck, hot and ticklish and unbearable in its slow descent, until the swipe of a tongue catches it, equally warm against his skin. Harry's skin is sensitized, and his fingers curl against his seat as he forces himself to remain still. He gathers his last remaining wits to say, "I should take my shirt off. Just in case."

"In case?" That tone is definitely teasing.

"In case you _happen_ to spill theriac down my front," Harry counters. "Which you really ought to. Sometime."

"Sometime?" A steady hand settles in Harry's hair, fingertips rubbing his scalp. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Snape's tone is definitely amused. "Next year?"

"Or sooner. I reckon right now is good, too." Harry raises his hand to undo the first button, but his wrist is captured in Snape's hold.

"Ah-ah. Not yet."

_Kinky sod!_

_Bloody hell, he is, isn't he? Really kinky._

_Well, all right, then._

Harry tugs out of Snape’s grasp and, taking a chance with the dimensions of the sofa, reclines back, spreading his arms wide and stretching out. "Are you sure about that?" he says to the dark unknown, a dare that tastes as sweet as treacle on his tongue, knees spread wide enough for Snape to step between them.

"You ought to be more careful about tempting fate in a... sticky situation such as yours, don't you think?" Something sharp and wooden traces the line of lacings on his robe and then his shirt, and a murmured spell makes them all come undone. "You might just get your wish."

"Yes. More." Harry is testing his limits. He's been doing so all his life, and doesn't know where and when to stop, especially when it comes to Snape. He licks his lips deliberately, sticking his tongue out and moaning softly. "Mmm."

There’s a touch of warm metal across his clavicle, the sticky-sweet heat blooming above his nipple, along his ribs. Drops of warmth all over his chest, a long trickle of it down his belly, unpredictable as rain. Harry welcomes it, knowing by now that Snape's mouth will follow.

It doesn’t. Instead, a fingertip smears syrup down the centre of his chest, and then there's emptiness where Snape's touch had been, before his finger presses against Harry's lips. Harry opens his mouth and sucks it in, trying to go slow, as slow and deliberate as the teasing git does to him all the time. He runs his tongue over the fingertip and waits.

There, a sharp intake of breath and then:

"Ask me for it."

 _Ha._ Harry can't help it, he gives the fingertip a rebellious nip even as treacle runs down his sides, ticklish and slow as spilt honey.

The fleeting touch over his nipple turns into a pinch that drives all thought of rebellion from his mind.

"No more of this until you ask."

_Fuck._

"Snape? Come on."

"Ask _nicely._ "

_Demanding git._

A thumb circles his nipple. Flicks against it. Stills. _Ah._

Harry arches blindly into the touch. _This isn't fair. It's not fair at all._

Well, when has Snape ever been fair?

Harry bites his lip and tilts his head to the side, leaning into the tight comfort of the blindfold. He turns toward the direction Snape's voice had come from. "I need you." It's the truth. "Please."

"Mm, that will do. Where were we? Ah." A fingertip traces down his ribs. A warm mouth descends on his nipple, sucks the stickiness off his skin. There's the weight of Severus' body between his legs and Harry welcomes it, thrusts against it, feeling cloth - must be Snape's robe - clinging to his sides, smeared with syrup and it's messy and sticky and fun. This is nothing like how he expected tonight to be. It’s so much better.

It seems all along Snape's plans for dessert were to make a meal of Harry. Well, Harry is fine with that. There's an odd sort of hunger in Severus' movements, in every touch of his hand to Harry's body.

"Want to see you," Harry breathes, his voice shaky with need. The treacle fragrance is suddenly so much stronger. _Sixty-four herbs and spices… Wow._ Did Snape hand-pick each one? Maybe one is an aphrodisiac?

But the only effect Harry feels with sudden intensity is the craving for Severus' touch. His heartbeat quickens. His blood rushes to the expected places, heavy and hot. Hard but far past the embarrassment of being seen like this, he lifts himself upward.

Hands press over his ears and thumbs brush his cloth-covered cheeks as Severus pulls the blindfold off. The room is dim and blurry without his glasses, the candles glowing with bleary halos of light reflecting in the silver side of the small cauldron, but Severus' face is clear up close. His hair over his face casts a deep shadow and his stare burns, as he surveys the results of his work. With the blindfold off, Harry glances down at the smears of treacle on his skin, amber-gold drops spilling down his sides. Some of them stain Severus' robes.

"At this rate, your sofa will need cleaning."

A finger taps his lips. "Watch," Severus says and leans down, licking a hot swipe right across Harry's belly, two inches above the belt. Harry gasps. His pants are too tight, and with Severus keeping his thighs spread like this, the situation is only bound to get more intense, especially when Severus' hands make their way under Harry's arse and squeeze, lifting him upward. Harry gasps at the proximity of Severus' mouth, parted, breathing hotly, right against his tented trousers, at the possibility of more, so much more.

He reaches out, pushing Severus' hair out of the way so he can get a better view of his face. Pale, dark-eyed, his nose nudging against Harry's inner thigh and a stare that can incinerate on the spot. _Beautiful._ It's not a word that ever applies to Severus Snape in any universe, but it's the only one that fits.

Harry is the one to unbuckle his belt, with Severus' clever fingers taking over to pull his zip down. It's all wonderful pressure and heat, and Harry's dying for the touch of Severus’ hand, any touch at all.

Severus grants it in order to liberate more skin, more straining flesh. Cool air hits Harry's erection, doing nothing to curb his enthusiasm. With his trousers and pants down around his knees, he's barely breathing as Severus looks his fill, his thumbs tracing lazily over Harry's inner thighs, Harry's cock hard and dark right in front of that sizeable nose. Bloody hell, the sight shouldn't be so arousing. That small gap between Snape's pursed lips and the tip of Harry's cock might as well be miles long, widened by the pure desperation of the moment.

"Yes," escapes Harry's lips. "Please." His voice betrays his need.

Severus' stare holds Harry captive, and then he smiles, his hands resting on Harry just for a breathless second. He looks down, and serenity settles over his features.

"I want your mouth on me. Your hands on me too. F-fuck," Harry begs. Every muscle in his body is tense. He's not proud.

A whisper of warm breath over the head of his cock drives all thought from Harry's brain. "Ask again," Severus says, and licks his lips, the absolute bastard.

"Touch me. Please." In response, Severus' hand wraps around Harry's cock and pumps once, lazily up and down, and Harry has no words left, just pure desire. He can feel himself, hard as a rock, every twitch, every building spasm, bringing him closer to bliss.

"Shall we work on your stamina?" Severus murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of Harry's cock, waiting. Determined to last, Harry counts his breaths. Every inhale is a struggle against maddening pressure. Severus is smirking, evil git that he is. His fist pulls upward until his thumb swipes at the tip of Harry's cock. And again. Harry can't stop himself from thrusting into Severus' hold, into the wonderful, squeezing hand.

Then Severus' mouth descends and drives all awareness of anything else from Harry's being. There's only one hot, desperate point of slick contact left, with the pressure just right to drive Harry insane. Severus' hand twists over his cock, and there's a welcome warmth as Severus' other hand cradles Harry's balls. Harry can't help it, for the first time in his life he wants more than anything to surrender. Surrender to the slick, sucking sensation, to the unsteady rhythm of Severus' ragged breathing, to the knowing touch: to let Severus pull him apart, piece by joyous piece, and put him together again. Did Severus mean it when he claimed he could stopper death? He can certainly bottle pleasure.

"Ahh," Harry gasps, and the hand on his cock pumps faster. Severus' mouth, his tongue is a miracle by itself, flicking right against the tip of Harry's cock, on the underside of it. Each hurried lick echoes in Harry from his toes to the inside of his skull. His spine is a conduit of sensation. He's overcome by it. He wants this to last as he struggles to hold onto every brilliant moment.

Severus swallows him deeper than before, and Harry feels his throat spasm right _there_. It's definitely not deliberate because Severus pulls back with a sudden cough. It takes all of Harry's willpower to keep still, to keep himself from thrusting. _Please don't stop._ The deep shock of leftover pleasure has him nearly shaking. He can't keep still. He has to. He arches up, lips parted, toes curled, hands fisted in Severus' robes _._

The magic of Severus' lips on him, trying again, has never felt so welcome. The touch and the heat of it dares both of them to see how far they can take it.

Severus is the one kneeling, but Harry is keenly aware that he can't control this, any of it, he can only surrender. They were enemies once, and back then surrender meant giving up all that Harry held dear. Now it simply means trusting Severus to wring pleasure from his willing body, trust that Harry communicates with every shaky breath, with every clench of his hands over Severus' ears, with every uncontrolled thrust against that hot, tight press of lips over the head of his cock.

His fingers tangle in dark strands of hair, snared like a wild thing. He daren't move, he mustn't yank: Severus must never stop. Distracted, he brings his hand up to Severus' scalp instead. It's greasy, but Harry doesn't care one bit, mid-writhe, mid-gasp on a narrow sofa. His thighs ache dully from being spread for so long. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the sight of Severus bobbing up and down over his cock, the glistening spit left on the rock-hard flesh where those thin lips were gliding just a second before. Then Severus looks up and Harry is Stunned without magic, scrutinized deeper than a Legilimens' reach, controlled by the waves of that maddening, wonderful suction in Severus' mouth.

Desperate for more contact, Harry frees his hand and grabs Severus' wrist, pulls it toward his mouth and presses a kiss against the theriac-smeared palm. It's salty with Harry's sweat and pre-come, and underneath it all, bittersweet as caramelised sugar, an unforgettable feast to the youth starved of years' worth of desserts.

And so Harry clings to Severus, rubbing his cheek against Severus' palm and smelling himself there. He gasps as those long, syrup-stained fingers fan out, thumb slipping in between his lips. Never before has he trusted another's touch so completely. Severus wields him, and his body obeys like an instrument. All Harry has to do is let go. Like this, just like this. _Fuck, so good._ His senses are flooded with the spiced honey-sweet scent of theriac. Sticky with it, Severus' fingertips cling to his belly, stinging with pinpricks of sensation from pulled body hair. It doesn't matter. _This_ matters. Only this: this isolated bubble of personal space framed between their bodies, hot with their shared breaths, right where their stares meet.

When the spasms of pure bliss overtake him, it's almost a relief. It's certainly a euphoric experience.

Severus doesn't let go of him even after it's over. His mouth gentles, but eventually Harry's softening cock is too sensitive to withstand even the barest of touches. In a haze, he reaches out, and Severus hauls himself onto the sofa, bony arms wrapping around Harry, pulling him closer until all tension is gone from his body and he just remains, heavy-limbed and grateful in Severus' arms. He tilts his head up into the kiss and can taste himself on Severus' lips. The air around them smells of sweat and desire, and of honey and spices. Severus' eyes are heavy-lidded when Harry kisses both furrowed brows, traces his hand down Severus' chest.

"You're still dressed," he says.

Severus shrugs. His robes are still wrapped tightly around him, even as they're slightly wrinkled and stained by theriac and come.

"S'only fair if you're naked too."

Severus' lips twist. "Bedroom, then."

Harry grins. Bedroom it is, a sensible start to the night, even if the offer comes a bit late. Whatever it takes to have a chance to touch Severus, even in the dark. Besides, he's curious to see the place where Severus has spent his mornings and evenings. Where he falls asleep every night. Where he greets the start of the new day.

His steps are still shaky as they steer each other toward the bedroom door, through it and toward the bed in the corner. A solitary candelabra follows them in, floating like a trident by Severus' side. The small round window is concave like a cauldron bottom and pitch-black with lake water. Harry expects Slytherin decorations, but the four-poster bed looks just like his own, sturdy and plain with a grey cover. Not that he cares about sleeping arrangements right now, not when Severus' collar is so conveniently unbuttoned before his eyes. Not when Severus' pale, scarred throat teases him with its proximity. Harry puts his lips to it, he can’t help it, and sucks the sliver of skin into his mouth.

"Ahh," Severus exhales, and for a second Harry can’t tell: _is it good, is it bad?_ He's not sure, but then Severus does it again and his fingers dig into Harry's shoulders instead of undoing the next button. He isn't pushing Harry away, so it's likely a good sound.

"I want this," Harry whispers in Severus' ear. "Everything you've done to me and more. I want to learn how you taste."

There's a shudder of limbs, a heated exhale against Harry's unruly mop of hair and Severus moves, nudging them toward the bed.

The backs of Harry's knees bump the mattress, and he grins and falls, taking Severus with him. His legs wrap around Severus, and Harry uses his body to cushion their unexpected tumble. It's the least he can do, what with Severus allowing him the freedom of a wholehearted kiss, the joy of claiming him through touch, even though he seems wary of it.

The watery darkness looms outside the bowl-shaped window. Slowing down, Harry buries his face in the expanse of pale, sweat-sheened chest, and just breathes. Severus tastes of salt, smells of cotton and a bit of dust, like a library would, right there where the veins on his wrists fade into his sallow palm. The bookish git has handled enough dusty volumes in his lifetime to absorb their smell (leather, learning), Harry's sure of it.

It's not long before Severus' belt is undone and Harry's pushing his trousers down. It's a wonderful rush to run his hand down a lover's body, to feel the heat and the need and the excitement of the shared moment. Severus' pulse is quick, his pupils dark and dilated, and his hair falls sleek as crow feathers across his brow. He’s a striking sight.

A discovery, one Harry's happy to make over and over again, if Severus lets him.

Off with the clothes, the layers, as wool crackles with static against Harry's fingers. It's all new to him. He wouldn't trade being here, experiencing this, sharing this with Severus, for the entire world. He smiles then, and presses his mouth to the exposed skin of Severus' belly, follows the dark trail of coarse hair down to his goal. Severus' cock thrusts, hard and heavy, against his jaw.

A hand tangles in Harry's hair, not daring to nudge him down. "You should see yourself," Severus breathes, frantic and hoarse. Barely a whisper. "What a sight you make. Like this..."

Overwhelmed, Harry buries his face in the warmth of Severus' belly; his hands find a handful of scrawny arse. He pulls back and licks his lips right against the tip of Severus' cock. His mouth waters. The sight of Severus, undone enough to offer himself to Harry exactly like this, to trust Harry enough to allow himself to be seen vulnerable and wanting taps something deep inside Harry, protective and raw, desperate and daring… _oh god, he wants me. Wants this._

"Ah. Just like that." That low voice could melt frozen lake water with its need alone. "Harry."

Harry's not letting anything else escape Severus' mouth, because he picks that exact moment to close his lips over the tip of Severus' cock, a hot hard length of it in his grasp, pressing heavily against his tongue. The smell of aroused flesh reaches his nostrils. He pulls back, not really wanting to let go. "Want you to feel this," Harry exhales wetly against slick, hard flesh. Under the touch of his hand, he can feel the narrow thighs part, tremble. "Let me do this for you."

A sound escapes Severus' throat, a guttural, desperate gasp. It echoes in Harry's gut, that ragged cry, twisting Harry's insides with a possessive sort of need. "You look so hot like this." Harry deliberately drags his fingers down over Severus' balls, marking every syllable with a caress. It's such a rush, the tremble of Severus' thighs, the quickened breath, and those dark, dilated pupils. It gives Harry the strength to continue. "When you want my hand. And my mouth. You want it bad, don't you?" Harry leans in for another taste of this, encountering such obvious proof of Severus wanting him. "So do I." 

Harry remembers the glide of elegant fingers across the unfolded pages of the potions journal, that day in the teachers' lounge. He couldn't get the memory of that hand out of his mind for days. Weeks! He remembers the sallow finger dipping into the space between the pages, pressing the pristine margins and marking them with a middle finger thrust right into the centre crease. He curls his fingers, claiming and pumping fast, until they’re just a blur over the spit-smeared cock that, for once, is not his own.

It's an addiction, that's what it is, plain and simple. He's drunk on Severus' presence, on Severus' trust. On every gasp, every thrust, every shudder. He wants this to last. But he wants Severus to come, right here and right now, and by the looks of things he soon will.

He wraps his lips around his mouthful once more.

With a raw, hoarse cry, Severus drags Harry upwards, pulling him into a hold that's anything but gentle. Harry's spun around, bared back against bared chest, and Severus' warm, spindly body is plastered against him the way ivy curls around a tree branch. His hands still clutch at Harry's hips, his erection thrusts at Harry's arse, slick and hot and huge. Harry gasps and thrusts back, dozens of maddening daydreams coming to life, the ones where he’s flushed and sweaty and awake, with come drying on his belly. "Yes," he keens. "Fuck!" But Severus is having none of it, his cock fitting right there against the sensitive skin between Harry's thighs, settling into a regular rhythm. Their bodies slot together in a furious way that only teases Harry, and then there's the mercy of those clever fingers as Severus takes the most desperate part of him in hand and pumps, once, twice, prompting a gasp out of him.

Surrounded by Severus, held by him, led by him in a rhythm slower than he likes, Harry presses his head back, wordless and mute, lips parted in a silent cry. It's not enough, never enough of Severus, but Harry takes all he can get. The frantic thrusts of their bodies, entangled, the pressure of fingers curling over his cock and driving Harry out of his mind, the desperation in the way Severus' mouth seeks his. Their kiss is almost a vow, a magical shock, overwhelming and raw.

Harry'll take this vow any day over empty promises. Life's as real as the fire in his veins, the beat of blood in his ears, and the series of sped-up thrusts. Again and again, until the tension in his cock is unbearable and Harry's taken over by a tide of pleasure, swept into the breathless abyss and left undone.

The clutch of Severus' fingers bruises him; Severus' teeth sink into his shoulder. The frenzy of Severus' hold followed by a single hoarse cry remakes him, kindling awareness in him and piecing him together again. Severus' thrusts culminate in a burst of wet heat between Harry's thighs, and it's messy and awkward and the best Harry's felt since forever. Heavy-limbed, worn out to exhaustion, and alive. So very much alive.

He turns to Severus and throws a sweaty arm over his side. They catch their breaths in dazed silence. Harry runs his fingers over Severus' ribs, and it's such a queer thing to feel Severus' body reacting before his mind catches up and his muscles lock against a spark of anything even resembling, even hinting at a laughing fit.

"Wow," Harry says.

"Quite." Severus' voice is hoarse, his hands gentle over Harry's back.

"All right if I stay?" Harry yawns and buries his face in Severus' pale shoulder, hoping for the best, and planning for an awkward walk up from the dungeons in the morning.

"Why do you even ask when it's perfectly clear you wouldn't make it past the hallway?"

"S'nice to ask," Harry grumbles. "Innit?"

Severus shifts, pushing Harry's arse right back onto the wet spot, the bastard. "Oh, very well then, stay."

It's all the invitation Harry needs. He thinks of a long trek to his empty quarters, the living room with the floating candles charmed to light whenever someone enters, the bedroom with a sassy mirror and a hawthorn branch on his bedside table, berries glowing bright red despite the season, the cold sheets on his bed, just like this one, except for one key difference: it doesn't have Severus in it. Suddenly, Harry is so glad to stay right here, in Severus' hold.

Together, they settle like two stones in the warm, muddy lake bottom, with the murmuring and stirring of the murky waters outside the bowl-shaped window.

An absent-minded wave of Severus' fingers extinguishes the candles and casts a cleaning charm on both of them. Harry inhales the fragrant smoke and grins in the dark, pressing his cheek against Severus' shoulder. One wiry arm settles over him, one long-fingered hand strokes his arse and traces up his spine as a cotton sheet is drawn over him. "Sleep."

Harry does. He wakes throughout the night, each bout of disoriented wakefulness ending in the surprising discovery of Severus: right there, his hair tousled and bared shoulder cool to the touch. Harry buries his face in the back of Severus' neck. Severus stirs. Harry pulls up the sheet over them both.

Once, Harry presses his lips softly against the sleep-warm flesh of Severus' shoulder. He can't believe his luck. He's in Snape's bedroom, the sanctum sanctorum of the greasiest git at Hogwarts, and yet it's nothing like he thought it would be. It's sparse but warm. Sounds are muffled here as the darkness blankets them. Outside the round window, something dark and huge stirs and settles again, in the hour when even the most mysterious of all monsters from the deep are asleep in their grottos.

Severus' breathing is no longer a steady rhythm. His knuckles sweep, barely there, gentle against Harry's cheek.

"Sleep."

Harry sleeps.

* * *

 

In the morning, Severus disappears into the loo, and Harry summons his wand and goes wandering about, stark-naked and curious. His wanderings pay off as he heads for the floating cauldron full of treacle and attempts to dip his finger in it, only to have it dodge and shudder out of the way in the most scathing manner possible. It's then that Harry spots _The Potions Quarterly_ on Severus' living room table. It's recent. In fact, it's the same edition that Severus caressed so memorably in the teachers' lounge, the one that started it all. It's open to a certain page, and next to the detailed drawing of a lavender plant are scribbled notes in the Half-Blood Prince's familiar, cramped style.

_For Long-lasting Joy:_

  * _Seven fruit skins (bramble or hawthorn grown within old castle walls). Most potent when gathered by an innocent._


  * _Fresh Basil leaf. Placed in the breast pocket during an ill-advised moment of passion._


  * _Lavender petals, dried between the book pages and then crushed. (Kept unseen in plain sight until ingestion.)_



_Reduce with six drams of meltwater in a new silver cauldron. Mix three drops of the resulting potion with a favourite food or drink to mask the taste. For the required effect, apply liberally as a salve to bare skin. Best when shared with the object of one's affection._

_Duration: to be determined._

Harry's heart soars. He traces the inked words and tastes the residual sweetness of the treacle still on his tongue. Then he returns to the bedroom.

He’s greeted by the sight of the bathroom door cracking open and steam drifting out, the screech of the hinges muffled by the sound of running bathwater within. Harry eyes it for a second, then smiles and accepts the wordless invitation, as sure as a Seeker in pursuit of the Snitch.

Three weeks from now, Harry will, at last, attempt to explain the situation to Headmistress McGonagall, who already knows. The chatty mirror in his rooms will grow tired of commenting on love bites and start giving relationship advice. Hagrid will have a stern talk with long-suffering, thoroughly disgusted Severus regarding his intentions, and Harry will, to his complete and utter embarrassment, finally learn that his gushing letter addressed to the Half-Blood Prince was delivered by Winky the well-meaning house-elf to its destination long ago. It was, indeed, what started it all.

But for now, the door closes behind him, leaving in its wake a cloud of white and the cautious sound of joy, shared.


End file.
